


Row Row Row

by beederiffic



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Camping, Established Relationship, Friendship, M/M, POV Third Person, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beederiffic/pseuds/beederiffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CAMPFIRE SEXINGS TIEMS \o/ It's the start of Final Frontier and Jim, Spock and Bones are around a campfire in Yosemite. They've barely said good night before Jim creeps into Spock's bunk. Bones alternatively reminisces and grinds his teeth over being a third party to a relationship that spans time and spaaaaaaaaaaaace</p>
            </blockquote>





	Row Row Row

**Author's Note:**

> Helps if you know TOS and the TOS movieverse but I hope I've left it vague enough that anyone can read it. This wouldn't have happened without awarrington , who not only cajoled me into writing more K/S but who also came up with half the ideas here, including the medical monitor.

Do they think I'm deaf or simply a deep sleeper? There's no point saying anything. The one time I did, shouting out to them that Some of us are trying to get some goddamn sleep, you two are hornier than a couple of toads in a bucket meant a scant sixty seconds' pause before they continued, a little quieter. So then I had to lie there and listen to them, knowing what they were doing and also, now, knowing that they knew I could hear it and didn't care. Perhaps even liked it. Skeeved the bejiggers out of me for days. 

I know Jim's got that exhibitionist side to him. Combine that with a legendary, alarmingly overactive libido and the near-constant presence of a first officer Jim's never been able to keep his hands off . . . I've had enough of it. Coming up thirty years later and it's still happening, thirty years of being the eternal goddamn gooseberry in this little two-step they keep dancing around each other.

Almost thirty years since I walked into Jim's quarters to notice them jump guiltily apart. Well, Jim does, tugging his shirt back down into place, Spock standing there impassively with a massive erection tenting his pants and an eyebrow hiked so high at me I swear he's risking brow sprain. Ptosis, if we're getting technical. Perhaps I should've figured it was going to happen, after everything that had happened on Vulcan with T'Pring as there's little that turns Jim on like an honest-to-goodness brawl, especially one in front of a good looking woman.

“Bones! We weren't expecting you.”

“No kidding. Are you two out of your sex-addled minds?”

“Doctor, I must advise you -”

“Cut the bull, Spock. I'd expect this from an irrationally hormonal mess of a human like him but you should know better and have far less excuse. This is Jim we're talking about, after all.”

“Bones, Bones . . .” The hypnotic lull of Jim's voice on my rapidly-fraying nerves does very little. “This, us, it's nothing. Honestly.”

“You know the regs, Jim. You know the reasons behind the regs. Do you need me to remind you? Or, better yet, perhaps we should ask the walking encyclopedia I caught you all snuggled up to.”

“You want to talk regs, Bones? You want to get into all that?”

“Well, I'll be darned.”

"What?"

It's when I figure out that he's feeding me a bunch of hooey about it being nothing. If he's going to threaten to quit turning a blind eye when I need him to if I'm not willing to do the same for him . . . looks like someone's finally getting under Jim's skin. It could be one heck of a floorshow. Jim puts a call lock on his door after that, first time since I've known him. He's certainly never worried about me walking in on him with anyone else before.

~*~

We were having a nice time. Jim throwing himself off a mountain and nearly killing himself for what, by my reckoning, must be the five thousandth and fiftieth time since I've know him managed to put a slight damper on things, but beans and bourbon and teasing the crap out of Spock is always going to be one hell of a good time in my book. I'm a man of simple pleasures. But this is perhaps one last time too many: Jim leaves it not even five minutes after we all say goodnight before he's crawling from his camp bed into Spock's, the fire still high enough to highlight his incipient paunch as he strips out of his various shirts on the way. He's the possibly only man in the universe who manages to make it look good. I told him to keep an eye on his weight at his last physical. More cushion for the pushin, Bones. Spock likes it.

I snort and turn my back on them in my bunk before he loses the pants. It's not like I didn't have a good idea this would probably happen, much as I pray every passing year and encroaching age-related erectile dysfunction might slow them down a little. But every single creak of Spock's bed, a heavy sigh and something whispered, Jim's muffled laugh, all of it travels across the cool forest air with easy precision. A rustle of a sleeping bag, then the repressed groan of a Vulcan on the receiving end of what is, no doubt, some highly accomplished oral that's making him lose a little of his emotional control. Jim has that effect on people. Particularly on Spock, who is spreading his legs now from the heavy squeaking of his bed as they both shift position.

I hate to admit it but you've got to respect Jim's skills. I've been Spock's physician for a long time now and, although Vulcan cultural mores mean that hasn't meant that much, I've seen his equipment up close and personal a few more times than I care to count. That Jim's managing to fit enough in his mouth to force Spock into making that deep grunt of pleasure says a lot about Jim's expertise or, at the very least, his enthusiasm. I'm not sure why but it surprised the heck out of me the time I disturbed them in the bathroom of that DS7 bar all those years back, Jim on his knees in front of Spock whose hands were twisting in Jim's hair rather more roughly than I'd have given him the credit for as Jim pumps his head over Spock's cock. Spock's face is utterly composed when he notes me gaping at them for one appalled minute before I turn, get the heck out of Dodge and start drinking myself into vegetative coma. Shore leave always seems to bring out the outdoorsman in Jim. Relatively speaking.

It's my own damn fault. Pounding back shot after shot one evening back on-board after a tough shift and I'm spilling to Jim about how that goddamn mirror Spock dumped a bunch of kinky thoughts about his own captain in my head. I guess I thought it might put him off as Jim's always been pretty vanilla, but I look across at him, face softened with booze, jaw working and glittering eyes narrowed as he considers it. Grins, rubbing at his chin with his fingers.

“Really? Spock's kinky?”

“Terran Spock is kinkier than a cat's tail after it got slammed in a door. It's going to take many years of pickling my neurons in alcohol before I'm likely to get all that out of my damn head, the things he wanted to do with a hypospray to various parts of his Jim fair boogles the mind.”

“And they have to do that melding thing whenever they have sex?”

“Vulcans? So rumor would have it but they're tighter lipped than a Gorn's armor-plated butthole about anything even remotely illogical.”

“Mating's not illogical, it's the most logical thing in existence.”

“A personal mantra I'm sure I could find stamped all over your DNA at an atomic level.”

“A mind meld . . . I wonder what that would even feel like, during sex. That could be . . . interesting.”

“Jim, no. No. Mess with anything else but your mind. As your doctor -”

“It'd be – almost a mind fuck, Bones. Just imagine.”

“I'm not halfway drunk enough for this.”

~*~

Spock's campbed is creaking rhythmically now as Jim finds his stride, the only signs of excitement from Spock now the smallest hitches in his breath, a low mutter of approval now and then. Always a power thing with these two, fighting for emotional dominance all the way. I don't know why Spock bothers any more, I never did understand it when it was always clear he was in it for more than a quick fuck. On the way to Babel one time, Spock's citing regulation with icy Vulcan reserve that he can't be incapacitated while he's in command when it's perfectly clear, to me at least, that he's fair hopping with worry until Jim's back on his feet after an attack. It's then that I realize this was never about just sex, not for Spock. I almost feel sorry for him. But then they decide to christen my sickbay, my beautiful, sterile sickbay, Jim's low chuckle skating through my nerves the second I'm out the door and I suddenly don't feel quite so sorry for Spock.

Spock always bore it all with typical Vulcan stubbornness, barely a flicker of an eyebrow each time we bump into yet another old girlfriend of Jimmy's or one more gorgeous alien female that the captain feels the need to, how did he used to put it?

“Negotiate personal terms with, Bones, sorry to cancel again. The bridge is yours, Mr. Spock, don't wait up.”

I follow him to the turbolift, grab his arm soon as the doors close behind us.

“I know you think Spock's some sort of goddamn computer, Jim, but this is shitty treatment, even for a cold-blooded devil like him.”

“Spock doesn't feel, not like we do. He wouldn't care if I was screwing half the ship's compliment.”

“You're sure about that?”

That guileless, golden grin.

“Oh Bones, so worried about me and Spock. We're just fucking. We haven't even melded.”

“What? He doesn't need to - ?”

“Doesn't seem to, no. He shoots like a torpedo launcher just from -”

“Good goddamn gravy, cut that out or I'll slap you halfway to infinity. Chrissakes, man, have a little compassion.”

He laughs, pats me on the shoulder.

“We have got to get you laid, Bones. You're way too interested in my sex life.”

“I don't need to be, it seems to be interested in me.”

 

Some armpit of a planet that doesn't even qualify for a proper name. The three of us are stuck in a damn jail cell, probably about to be led to a painful death. Personally, I tend to look on things a sight sunnier after a few hours sleep, but no, I'm a captive audience to the up close and personal interspecies mating demonstration. There's no escaping them, literally. I mutter that perhaps death will be preferable to the alternative, hear Jim chuckle into Spock's ass. I suppose it's keeping their minds off impending doom. Mine too, now I think on it.

~*~

A crackle from a log falling into embers on the dying fire, a gagging noise followed by a deep voice saying one word, Yes.

 

I notice Spock watching him. He never takes his eyes off Jim, which exactly isn't unusual as gazing at the captain seems to be a popular ship-wide activity. But Spock's different. It's not the usual blushing and blustering whenever the captain turns a smile his way like everyone else that's carrying a planet-sized crush on Jim. Spock, for all his lack of personal expression, radiates an intense possessiveness whenever he's around Jim. He barely twitches a muscle when yet another crew member touches Jim's elbow and gives him a secret smile but, still, I can detect the tension and dark, forbidding purpose pouring off Spock in waves. I don't know how Jim manages to be so oblivious to it unless it's on purpose, and I didn't think he was capable of that level of casual cruelty.

I suppose I was right, in a way. Nothing's ever truly casual with Jim. It's so easy to go along with the impression he purposefully cultivates, that everything's there on the surface with him, that his hidden depths are non-existent. It's always easy to be beguiled by him but I understand, perhaps better than he does himself, how bone-deep he holds everything. There's not another being alive who experiences emotion to the same sort of depth as Jim, I suppose that's why it was inevitable Spock would be so drawn to him, perhaps much in the way living beings will always crowd around the scene of a fatal accident. I wasted time and energy, being mad at Jim for dicking Spock around when it should've been clear to me that all Jim was doing was running for his life. 

A shuttle bay, after yet another space boogyman out to get us, a big goddamn space cloud-amoeba thing this time. Space can suck my goddamn balls. I'm on my way down to, well, tease the heck out of Spock but also reassure myself that he's not dead, that he didn't die in my place when I should've been out there, not him. So I come down to reassure myself that I won't have to carry a crippling weight of guilt for the rest of my miserable existence, and they've not even wasted a moment to try to find shelter from prying eyes as I see them the moment I walk through the doors. 

Over to one side but in plain sight and it stabs through my heart. Jim, pants and boots thrown off behind him, ass hiked high and impaled deeply on Spock's dick with his legs wrapped around Spock's hips but it's his face I can't take my eyes off, a study in awestruck emotion as Spock's hand holds firm in meld points across his face, hips rocking softly against Jim's as his other arm holds Jim up tightly into his body. Tears pour down Jim's cheeks as he looks up into Spock's eyes with an overwhelming love he's apparently unable to hide from anymore. Sending a lover to what you think is certain death can do that, I figure. I key an external lock onto the door as I leave and forgive them this one. 

 

Stupid me, thinking that would change a damn thing. Nothing changes, certainly not the great James T. Kirk, Intergalatic Super Stud routine and I can see it wearing Spock down, raindrops gradually eroding a granite mountain.

“You been getting drunk, maudlin and watching old movies again? Of course I feel something for Spock. You and me, we're human, Bones, we have the capacity within us to love many.”

“Oh, that's bull and you know it, humans who are truly polyamorous make up less than four percent of the entire species, it's nothing more than an occasional biological quirk and not one that's shown up on your psych-profiling. Don't you see what it's doing to him? Miramanee -”

“Don't. That's not fair, I wasn't myself. She's off limits.”

“He was killing himself over you and you were off skipping through the daisies falling in love with someone else.”

“You're crossing a line, doctor. I didn't even know Spock existed.”

“All I'm saying is, tone it down. Be a little less you. As far as we're aware, Vulcans bond with their mates, it's supposed to be more physiological than it it psychological and I'd be very surprised if Spock's not physically reliant on your relationship with him by now, if I'm understanding the little info we have correctly. Which I suppose may be half the reason he knocks himself out so constantly saving your scrawny ass.”

“My ass is not scrawny. My ass is magnificent.”

“You're avoiding the point, Captain.”

“Butt out, Bones. Since when did you become Spock's great protector? Besides, I don't need relationship advice, least of all from you.”

It doesn't bite like perhaps it should. It's simply the struggles of a drowning man, smacking his potential rescuer in the face out of sheer panic. I give him a smug smile and raise my glass in toast before downing it as he frowns in annoyance at me.

~*~

The sound of Jim slapping his own dick fast in ecstatic arousal as he moans wetly around Spock's dick carries across the glade, worming its way into my ears like those scaly little ear bugs that have haunted my nightmares since that one crawled its way out of Chekov. They must be melding now as Spock suddenly gets one heck of a lot more vocal and how in the name of all that is good and holy is it appropriate that I can pinpoint when they start melding from the way Spock begins to echo Jim's sex noises? That I even know Jim's sex noises in the first place? Damn them all to hell and back, I don't need to have this kind of crud cluttering up my brain, I'm a doctor, I have enough to mentally archive without a relationship that's not even my own setting up camp in there.

 

Each of you must evaluate the loss in the privacy of your own thoughts. 

I must have been wrong about the bond. Over and over again, they demonstrate that they're able to function without each other. Spock's refusal to publicly mourn his captain, standing in front of the crew, arms tucked behind his back, in perfect control as he leads a goddamn memorial for his dead lover and I get angry with him, furious that he can't even bend a little, not even now. A hundred times, a hundred possible deaths and they carry on as usual while I'm a nervous wreck on their respective behalves. Wiping a heavy splatter of oily green blood away from my forehead with my wrist as Jim hovers behind me until I make enough reassuring noises to make him go away. If it was me, the person I loved bleeding out on the biobed in front of my very eyes, wild horses couldn't have dragged me out the doors but Jim simply sets his jaw, nods, Fix him up for me, Bones and returns to the bridge. 

Perhaps the most emphatic proof of all, that whatever bond I imagined was there didn't exist or wasn't that big a deal. Damn Vulcans, so much about them is supposition and rumor, it makes it tougher than old boots to figure out how to deal with them half the time. The mission's end, everyone on board it seems thinking I have the inside skinny on whether or not Jim and Spock intend to turn down the promotions pushed their way to go shack up in a little love nest somewhere or whatever the Vulcan equivalent might be. Hell if I know, is the only answer I have. But they don't, they scatter to the solar winds rather than risk trying to build any kind of life together and I'm not sure if we're not all a little more heartsick about it than they are, all of us suddenly kids from a broken home.

Not to say they're unaffected. I barely keep track of Spock but Jim pulls me into one heck of a rebound tour alongside him, screwing any bond out of himself with chilling efficiency and banning the mention of Spock's name the fiftieth time I misguidedly encourage him to talk about it. Running scared again, Jim's perhaps the most courageous man I know but Spock is altogether too big an issue for a man like him. I got the impression, back then, in the few weeks before we returned to Earth that Spock would've retired his commission for Jim, but Jim clings to the job, to the uniform and everything that it says about him. 

Of course, they treat me to one last little performance before the last of us transfer to dock. I bring a toast up to the bridge for the three of us, just a little gesture to recognize the lunacy, the journey, all that we'd been through together, only us left on board now as our crew carries our hearts out with them. I could've guessed that my two fingers of whiskey would get trumped by Jim screwing Spock in the Captain's chair. It's a hard, ferocious fuck, Spock's teeth bared and his eyes closed in concentration, sweat dripping down Jim's forehead as he hammers angrily into Spock's ass, cursing at him, hands on Spock's shoulders with his fingers digging in. I don't know what he's so furious about, Jim's normally so transparent but, where Spock's concerned, he keeps it so close to his chest it might as well be tattooed on him.

~*~

“Spock! My god, you haven't changed a bit. The same sour-faced pointy-eared hobgoblin as ever.”

“Doctor.”

“Still intent on bending my ear off, I see.”

“You may rest assured that I have no intention of doing anything untoward to your ears.”

A research convention on Palln and I'd recognize that stiff posture a kilometer away. It's not exactly the warmest of reunions considering we've not seen each other face to face in years, but the microseconds he takes to consider my invitation to dinner seem shorter than they'd have been back then. Perhaps he's finally warming to my charming side. He's out of practice again, it had taken Jim and me months to get him to understand the value of a good gas over a hot meal and it's like trying to push water uphill this evening, Spock's face its usual blend of blankness and polite inquiry as he answers all my questions with economical brevity. Eventually I have to admit defeat. Push away my plate and throw my napkin on top of it.

“Aren't you planning to ask about him, at all?”

“I am uncertain as to whom you refer, Doctor.”

“Don't give me that, Spock, you know damn well who I'm talking about.”

“Given the small group of mutual acquaintances we share, I believe I am able to make a supposition.”

He sounds almost wistful, his eyes sliding away from mine to focus on the middle distance somewhere over my shoulder. “You have communicated with him in recent months?”

“Sure, I saw Jim, what, seven months back, he came to stay for a couple of days before he took off to oversee finalizing the new accord over on KX98.”

The tips of his ears flush pale green as his eyes drop to watch his hand scoop up another spoonful of Vulcan slop. I do believe I've just witnessed a demonstration of Vulcan nonchalance. 

“Now, wait just a goddamn minute. You've seen him! You two been sneaking around?” Behind my back, I have to bite my tongue near in half to stop that little gem from popping out.

“I assure you that Vulcans do not sneak.”

“But you've been meeting up with Jim? He never said a word. He just let me assume -”

“I believe the tactic was described to me using the phrase, 'what Bones doesn't know, won't crawl up his ass and die there'. The Admiral is aware that you have his best interests at heart, doctor.”

“How often?”

His eyes don't even shift as he makes a blindingly fast calculation. 

“Currently, the average length of time between our assignations stands at three hundred and ninety six point three six days.”

“Point three six?”

“Was I incorrect in my assumption that a more detailed figure would be of little relevance within the context of our discussion?”

“No, Spock, you weren't. Damn him, I've been so . . . that tricky bastard did seem awfully keen to get away to those accord negotiations.”

I can't fail to miss it this time. Spock smiles. On a quantum level, but it's there, his eyes lengthening by a millimeter.

~*~

We're getting too old for this. Propping up a dive bar far enough away from HQ that anyone who knows Admiral Kirk will leave us the hell alone anyway and Jim's staring into the bottom of his glass like an answer lies there.

“It's in his blood, Jim. You've always known it.”

“I thought – I don't know what I thought. Perhaps . . . I don't know. Why is my glass empty?”

“It's not a done deal. He's got years ahead of him before the final ceremony, anything could happen.”

He shakes his head, eyes wet, bangs his glass on the bar to get the attention of someone willing to bring him more hard liquor. 

“You know what Spock's like. Once something's in his head, nothing's going to stop him. I've lost him this time, Vulcan tenacity meant it took a decade or so longer than everyone before him but he's finally had enough of me. He's not working towards kolinahr to purge emotion, Bones. He's doing it to purge me.”

“Assuming that he's undertaking a centuries' old, life-changing ritual just because you two broke up is more than a little arrogant, wouldn't you say?”

He laughs, puts down his glass and holds out his hand.

“Hi, James Kirk. Pleased to meet you.”

 

Turns out, the universe isn't done with them yet. With any of us, since Starfleet decides to pull my ass back in out of a blessedly dull retirement and we're all back gallivanting around the goddamn galaxy again like geriatric teenagers in an open top car, ready to rumble. Spock's colder than a witch's titty after too many years on Vulcan and not even Jim dares jump on him, so much so I can quit wincing while walking around blind corners after awhile. But then Spock's in trouble, trying to meld once more with an unknown alien force because apparently he's never going to learn his damn lesson with that move, and it's Jim to the rescue, jumping into a thruster suit and going against every regulation in the book. Seeing the two of them in sickbay, holding hands while Jim gazes down at Spock on the biobed, relief and love etched into every line in his face, hell, even my dust-covered heart shakes out the cobwebs and draws back the drapes. I let Spock out of sickbay under the condition he wears a monitor for the next full rotation and follow them up to the bridge.

As I was when I came aboard, so is V'Ger now. Empty. Incomplete. Searching. Logic and knowledge are not enough.

A tear rolls down Spock's cheek and Jim pretty much melts into the floor. Dammit. Here we go again. 

I forget about the monitor. I'm down in sickbay after everything's wrapped up, trying to make sense of the new layout and why the hell some idiot with more brain than butt would decide to store cytoplasmic stimulators in fiddly little individual compartments when a small alarm chimes across the way. Spock's heart rate has jumped significantly, as has his blood pressure and rate of breathing, a rush of hormones sending everything haywire. 

“McCoy to Spock. Out for an evening run are we?”

A pause of a few seconds before he replies, which is answer enough.

“Doctor. I shall remove the monitor if my evening's activities are likely to give you cause for concern.”

“Dammit Spock, I need to monitor you over a significant period of time, it would be negligent to do otherwise. I thought I told you to take it easy?”

“I am not planning to exert myself further than is necessary. Good evening, doctor.”

Phase two of arousal, his heart rate and blood pressure now continuing to climb after a brief delay during our conversation. Those rat bastards are making me watch when I'm not even in the room with them. His muscles beginning to tighten and spasm, little twitches of sensation all over his body lighting up across the chart. Phase three, heart rate rising still, blood vessel engorgement reaching a peak. At least the years apart mean that this isn't going to take too long. There we go, a massive release of endorphins. I nod, nice job, Jim. Not too shabby. Phase four, heart rate and blood pressure decreasing, a relaxation of muscle tension as Spock liquifies into the bed, assuming they've even made it into a bed this time. 

I've barely even finished that thought before the alarm starts chiming again and we're right back in phase one. Score one for Vulcan physiology and Jim's never-ending appetites.

~*~

The camp bed's creaking like a sailing ship in a sea storm and I don't know what they're doing now because Jim's mouth is free all of a sudden and a little too descriptive for my liking. At least I know that, whatever Spock's doing to him, it feels God, so good Spock, you're so fucking – ahh, yeah, so good, Christ, that feels . . . I'm going to – you're going to make me, ahh fuck, so close, I'm so, uhh, close. Lord, I hope so.

 

Something's changed this time. Maybe it was the threat of kolinahr, forcing Jim to take Spock seriously for once. Perhaps it's simply the unending pressure to keep saving the goddamn planet over and over again, which tends to throw people together. Whatever it is, we all relax as Jim's eyes soften with a yielding, glowing warmth each time he looks across the bridge at Spock, who even seems to be developing something of a sense of humor at last. At least, you'd think so by the understated manner in which he hikes an eyebrow at me, 

“Is there a problem in need of my attention, doctor?”

As if he's not got Jim on his knees in front of his chair in the darkened obs lounge, Jim not bothering to break rhythm just because he's got an audience. 

“Not at all. By all means, Jim, carry the hell on.”

He grunts around Spock's dick but I'm already on my way out.

 

And still we move on, down a calm river that suddenly churns white in a rapids run as Spock is taken from us, stolen from Jim and I carry a part of Spock inside me that rages for a return to him. When a love's so audacious, so absolutely steadfast in the belief it can cheat death itself – you have to respect that. Perhaps we should all fall to our knees and worship it. Again, they arrange the stars around themselves like so much wheat chaff and I'm now listening to the smack of Spock's hips against Jim's as Jim oh-oh-ohes his way through the paper-thin Klingon bulkhead between their quarters and mine. A need for personal privacy isn't warrior-like enough for Klingons and it's just one more reason why I hate being stuck in this stinking, rusty bucket of bolts. Spock's repeating Jim's name over and over, growling it as he grows closer and I know I'll be treating Jim for bruises in the morning once more. Most men might baulk at taking on a lover who could crush his very bones in the throes of passion but, if history's taught us nothing else, it's proved time and time again that Jim Kirk's not most men.

~*~

Finally. About damn time, Jim climaxes with a gaspy, stuttering curse, the meld pulling Spock through it with him, a low rumble, which is, for a Vulcan, pretty expressive. I tuck myself further into my bunk as Jim catches his breath, muttering something under his breath to Spock and sounding more than a little pleased with himself.

“It's okay, Bones. You can quit grinding your teeth now.”

The unmistakable sound of a deep, wet kiss before a heavy creak as Jim climbs up out of Spock's bunk, returning to his own.

“You know, you'd miss it if we didn't share. Look how miserable you were when we weren't together.”

“You know what? I'm an old man, Jim, I think I'd cope without the all-live 'Spock and Jim makin' whoopee' show at this stage in my life. Now, I'm going to try to get some shuteye if you two can keep your goddamn hands to yourselves for five minutes.”

Thing is, I reckon he might be right. All's right in the galaxy when Jim and Spock are together. We all know it, no point in denying what's clearly a universal truth. A few seconds later and Jim's already asleep, beating me to it, snoring his head off like a Carolina sawmill during logging season.


End file.
